


Three Times John Didn't Know How to Have Sex with Sherlock (And Maybe One He Did)

by VaguelyDownwards



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bodyswap, Crack, F/F, Frustration, Genderswap, M/M, not quite smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:25:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VaguelyDownwards/pseuds/VaguelyDownwards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a pretty good idea what he wants to do to Sherlock, but their bodies have this annoying habit of getting in the way.</p><p>Somewhat crackish. I don't know how or why the two of them end up in various conditions, they just do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three Times John Didn't Know How to Have Sex with Sherlock (And Maybe One He Did)

This was it. This was the moment. It was real, and it was happening. He’d had the dreams for months, told himself he had no idea why he should dream such a thing, until eventually he’d come to terms with the reality of what he wanted.

And now he’d set the whole thing in motion. He could try to blame the wine or the adrenaline rush of risking his life yet again, but it would be a lie. He’d kissed Sherlock because deep down, there was a part of him that had wanted to do so since they’d met. And wonder of wonders, Sherlock had kissed him back. The man was not a statue.

Instinctively, he pulled at Sherlock’s trousers. Too much fabric was between them; he needed to feel skin. He was increasingly comforted by the feel of Sherlock’s hands on his waist. He repeatedly told himself things were going well. John certainly knew how to undress a partner, and signs were good so far that Jim’s little nickname for Sherlock was inaccurate. He forced his panic aside.

He won his battle with Sherlock’s zipper, and off went the trousers. Underwear was soon to follow. Sherlock navigated John’s clothing with similar ease.

John was suddenly in an utterly unfamiliar situation.

He knew that he wanted his clothes off. He knew that he wanted Sherlock’s clothes off. And there was a part of him that ached for release. But he wasn’t sure how to proceed from there, not with another man, and Sherlock wasn’t giving him any hints. John froze up.

——-

It wasn’t that John didn’t know what to do with a woman in the bedroom. He considered himself reasonably well-versed on the matter, without puffing up his ego too much. No, quite the opposite. It’s just that… well… all his experience hinged on his being a man at the time.

He stared at the pale beauty stretched out on the bed, dark curls clustered around her (his?) face, and wondered what he was supposed to do.

Surely he had seen videos on the subject. How much was theatrics, he wondered, and how much was an accurate portrayal of two barely-legal ladies? Was he actually considering using pornography as a reference material? No, no, that wouldn’t do. He focused on what he knew.

He tried to avoid staring Sherlock in his (her?) cunt. The thought made him nervous in a way he hadn’t been since his days at uni. This was ridiculous. It shouldn’t be so difficult. Obviously Harry got on (and off) well enough. There were plenty of things he could do to a female body that didn’t rely on the anatomy he was currently lacking. But they’d always been a means to an end— an end he didn’t have at the moment. Sherlock gave him a curious look from where he lay, as if asking him what was taking so long. His feminine brows furrowed artfully. It was excruciating.

“I have a headache,” John said finally, and stormed out before Sherlock could argue.

——-

“It’s an experiment, John,” Sherlock said. John wasn’t sure which frustrated him more— that Sherlock could propose sex with such indifference, or that a man of such practiced distance could be so insatiable.

“No,” John said firmly. Sherlock watched him as he paced the room in agitation. The effect was disconcerting, seeing Sherlock’s expressions bloom across his own face. He was thrown off enough already by the strange experience of height, of long dexterous limbs, of entirely too much hair curled around his head. He’d known the day was preemptively ruined when he woke up to discover none of his clothes would fit him (and, judging by the way the shirt pulled across his chest, neither did any of Sherlock’s). The continuing stream of increasingly inappropriate advances only worsened things.

“Come on, John. We could learn how much of your preferences are purely in your mind, and which are ingrained in your body.”

“No, Sherlock. I mean it. How would that even work?”

Sherlock caught him by the hand on his next pass and pulled him into a kiss. John was too overwhelmed to stop him. The territory was foreign in a queasily familiar way, but the technique was all Sherlock. John was hardly attracted to his own body, though feeling it move with Sherlock’s character was oddly arousing. Feeling himself stiffen, however, brought a fresh wave of disorientation— it wasn’t just that his pants fit too tightly, but they were the wrong pants, slung daringly low on the wrong hips, stretched tight over the wrong erection.

Sherlock, observant man that he was, pulled back when he sensed John’s growing discomfort. “Another time,” he said. “It’s no good if you’re not into it, anyway. Skews the results.”

And then he left, while John stood there and clenched and unclenched Sherlock’s hands, more sexually frustrated than he could ever remember being. He resolved to look for a mirror and some privacy.

——-

“You’re making this more difficult than it has to be.” Sherlock’s voice seemed distant and slightly rough. Fair enough. There were things both of them would rather be doing instead of talking. Namely, each other.

“Oh, and you’re the expert, are you? Sleep with a lot of blokes?” He didn’t mean it to sound so accusatory, but there it was.

“About as many as you.” None, then. So if they were in the same boat, why was he being such a smug bastard about it? “John, consider that the differences between us are largely superficial. Physically speaking.”

“I noticed,” John said through gritted teeth.

“Then consider that our bodies respond similarly when exposed to the same stimuli. You are no stranger to the male body, as neither am I. The rest is just getting to know each other.” As if to make an example, he took hold of John’s hand and placed it over his groin. It was not, John had to admit, an entirely alien piece of anatomy.

It seemed silly now to freak out about it. “Brilliant,” John murmured, pulse quickening.

“You still do that out loud,” Sherlock said fondly.


End file.
